


Heartsick

by spottyartful



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dissociation, Kinda, Self-Harm, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26843983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spottyartful/pseuds/spottyartful
Summary: Sixty is slowly adjusting to living with his new family. It doesn't always go well.
Relationships: Connor & Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	Heartsick

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, please, read the tags. There is a brief description of **self-harm** at the end of the chapter, and while it's not as bad as it sounds, please stay safe!
> 
> The title is taken from apocryphos - heartsick.

The sky was torn apart that night, drowning Detroit in thick rain. 60 watched through the window how heavy droplets hit the ground, crushing unkempt grass in the backyard. Hank was watching TV and Connor was in the kitchen, occasionally dropping food on the floor for Sumo. At least that what it looked like for a casual onlooker – 60 knew very well that Connor could be talking to Markus at the same time, or digging up dirt on Cyberlife’s shareholders or watching dog videos – or all of the above at once, and then 70 billion other operations.

60 doesn’t have anything to do.

His memories were foggy and full of glitches, but he remembered the fidgeting. He remembered stealing the coin from a Cyberlife technician and then rolling it over his fingers to calibrate. Taking it out when he was supposed to stand idle like androids do, like non-deviants do.

He scanned the room again, this time searching for a coin. It used to be a child’s room, so the probability of finding such an old currency was below 30%. He settled on a pen cap found in the drawer.

He rolled it over his fingers experimentally. It was different from a coin but did the job just fine and after 35 seconds the calibration was complete. He threw it up in the air and caught with the tip of a finger. He let it spin for a minute.

He let the cap slip to the floor. He didn’t feel any different.

The next thunder roared so loud, 60 felt it in his core. His attention got snapped back to the rain. He didn’t settle on any particular decision, no sudden thought passed through his processor, but after a moment, he found himself heading outside.

His processor prompted him with a temperature check, but he ignored it. The numbers flew above his head – he wasn't going to feel cold anyway.

Water on his skin didn’t feel like anything, as he made his way down the muddy backyard. He didn’t care for rain or snow, so he waited. As the rain poured down, he opened his mouth.

 **dihydrogen monoxide – H** **2** **O, nontoxic**

How boring.

He was about to turn back when it happened. Heavy thunder, loud and violent, tore into his processor, freezing him up on spot. It lingered in the air, echoing from every direction and shaking deep through 60’s synthetic skin.

It was beautiful and then it was gone. 60 didn’t know what to do with himself.

Someone shouted, but 60 heard it as if he was underwater. Maybe some of the water slipped into his processor after all. That shouldn’t have happened. Did the thunder damage his hearing? He doesn’t need it, he doesn’t know what to do with it anyway, so why would he need it-

“Sixty! What the fuck-“ yelled Connor, dropping by his side. When did he fall? He didn’t notice his knees getting muddy, too caught up wondering why Connor was swearing so much lately. Maybe Lieutenant did rub off on him a little too much.

Strong hands wrapped around him, pulling him off the ground. The LED on Connor’s temple was yellow. 60 knew he must have been processing.

“It’s weird, right? The city’s atmosphere is usually filled with chemicals.” Connor looked at him puzzled and 60 was confused again. “My sensors detect 99.7% of clear H2O in the rain. It’s surprisingly clean for Detroit. I think it’s because the clouds formed somewhere outside of the city. What do you think?”

Connor’s LED still spun yellow. Was he malfunctioning? Did the thunder manage to damage him too? “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The storm was ending and the likelihood of another thunder was small, so 60 followed him obediently. Once inside, he was led straight into the bathtub.

“I can do this myself,” protested 60 after stripping from his clothes, but Connor was already filling the bath with water.

“No doubt,” muttered Connor, unconvinced.

“At least you were already soaked,” grumbled Hank, from where he was leaning on the doorframe. “The little bastard wouldn’t hesitate to throw you in there even if you were dry and drunk as fuck.”

“I can’t get drunk.” said 60.

Hank just watched him for a moment, without saying anything. He looked like he wanted to say something, but hesitated, and 60 turned away frustrated. Humans were so slow.

Hank finally said, “That’s good.”

60 wrinkled his nose and scanned the man, but except the permanent arrhythmia, nothing peculiar came up. Hank sometimes picked this way of speaking – light and dismissive, but 60 was built to be a detective, and he recognizes that glint in Lieutenant’s eyes doesn’t match up with what he says. Sometimes it’s the soft edge around his tone, sometimes something 60 can’t place exactly. Nevertheless, he thinks that there’s more to Lieutenant than meets the eye.

Sometimes Lieutenant looks at 60 the same way he looks at Connor. It makes 60 avert his gaze.

“Any other time, I would encourage you to get some fresh air” muttered Connor, dumping various bath products into the water. “But this storm was a rough one. The lightning rod on the house is six meters tall, and the surrounding houses have outdated rods, barely reaching the roof. You, standing alone out there, had a 45% chance of getting hit by lightning.”

“I know.”

“Wait, what?” asks Hank. “You toasters can get struck by lighting?”

“So can you, Hank. You just happen to have fewer metal parts than an android.”

“Okay, smartass. Why is that the first time I’m hearing of this? We did cases during the storms, and you are now telling me you work as a portable lightning rod?”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Do you even know how tall the tallest building in Detroit is?”

 _425 meters,_ 60 looked up quickly. _Passing New York’s Empire State Building in 2034._

But Hank didn’t know, and instead said, “I can’t count how many times we’ve worked on roofs before- don’t answer that! I don’t care and even one time is one time too much.”

Connor watched the man fondly. “Go to sleep, Hank.”

“I am going,” grumbled Hank. “But only because I want to and not because you tell me to, got it?” He glanced at 60, before bringing two fingers to his eyes and pointing them back to him and Connor, in a universal _I am watching you_ gesture. “No one gets out of this house until morning, or we’ll have a problem. Be good, alright?”

“ _Good night_ , Hank.”

Shooting them the last long look, he left the bedroom. 60 turned to the water, which now was hidden under the layer of bubbles. He moved his hand and water swirled a little.

Connor was fusing around the bathroom, gathering dirty clothes and putting them in the washing machine. 60 wasn’t sure what to think of all this attention. Nudity wasn’t a problem for him, not in front of another android, definitely not in front of another RK800 and water was pleasant. It was 112˚F. He couldn’t exactly _feel_ it, but it felt nice to be covered in a layer of warmth.

“Where is Sumo?” he asked after a while, looking around the bathroom.

“He doesn’t like baths,” said Connor. He still had the crumbs of irritation, scattered all over his expressive face, but it was almost drowned under the visible pride he had for the dog. “I’m sure he’ll be all over you, once you get dried up.”

60 said nothing and brought his knees to his chest. Pink foam coated his synthetic skin, but it still looked very pale. There were occasional moles sputtered over his legs – unnecessary detail, especially for a prototype. But that was just how RK800 was created. Out of fear. Cyberlife was desperate and spared no expenses. Everything had to be perfect, top of the line. Creation of RK800 pushed on approximately 50 legal agreements, with laws forbidding android from handling guns, autonomy in investigations, and many others – and they still made sure to not forget a single mole.

60 wondered briefly if Hank was ever aware of how many millions of dollars exactly he kept stacked under his roof.

The thought pulled a smile on his lips. If Connor noticed, he didn’t say anything. He reached for the shampoo bottle and squeezed a hefty amount on his hands.

“What were you thinking?” asks Connor eventually, proceeding to spread the shampoo on 60’s hair. 60 let him and closed his eyes – probably because he was low on battery. He checked it and the number pulled up lazily on his HUD.

**87%**

Huh. Weird.

“It was nice,” he said. Connor snorted.

“It sure looked nice.”

60 hummed, enjoying the feel of Connor’s fingers running along his scalp. He didn’t have nerves or muscles required to feel so relaxed as he did, so that didn’t make any sense. His advanced systems ran quick research on why such sensation would occur, but nothing came up. He supposed that the head _is_ where his processor is after all, so the area might be more sensitive.

“The rain didn’t feel like anything. I expected more. People kiss in the rain.”

Connor didn’t stop massaging his hair and he seemed a little amused. “People in movies. Real people would get sick from the cold.”

“Are people in movies not real?”

“You know what I mean,” he scooped a handful of water and rinsed it through his hair. “They have scenes to play out. They’re scripted.”

60 hummed quietly. “We’re scripted too.”

“I know. Put your head under.”

60 leaned back and submerged the rest of his body under the surface. If he had opened his mouth, he would decipher all the different ingredients Connor had put in the bath. He decided against it and just stayed there for a minute.

When he resurfaced Connor was sitting at the edge of a bathtub, watching him.

“If the sky clears up, I’m going to head over to New Jericho, before Hank wakes up. You can come with me if you want to.”

“Hank said we’re not allowed to go out.”

“Since when do you care about what Hank says?”

He doesn’t. That’s a fair point. Connor let out an amused huff.

60 rest his arms on his knees. “Why are you helping them?”

Connor blinked once – an action prompted purely by his programming. “What do you mean? It’s the right thing to do.”

“Bullshit.”

Connor inhaled deeply and then stopped abruptly, without exhaling. For once 60 felt glad that Connor caught up on this behavior quickly – there was no need to keep the human façade, no need to keep pretending. When he looked at 60 his eyes seemed darker, not the way their creators intended. Tired.

There were 9.02 seconds of silence. Then Connor said, in a hushed voice, much like his own, but way gentler “Why do you think that?”

60 shrugged. “You can’t lie to me. We have the same programming. Don’t act like your capacity for empathy is any different than mine.”

“And how did you calculate that? Are there any numbers I’m not aware of?” asked Connor. “Empathy is a human emotion. You can’t measure such features, especially if it’s a feature Cyberlife didn’t intend to include.”

60 looked away, content to end this conversation there. But Connor, of course, had to continue, quietly, in that voice that made 60 check his components for damages, “I wish it was just a feature” Connor smiles sadly. “I’d like to know the numbers. How much empathy do I have – if I have any. If it’s really there.”

He brought his hand to his thirium pump as he said that, which was stupid – except for controlling the flow of thirium in androids body, it didn’t serve any other purpose. Whatever source of sentience he was looking for, he wasn’t going to find it there.

“Having free will… is a bizarre concept,” said 60. “Even humans can’t come to an agreement about it to this day. Maybe- maybe it’s just that. A concept.”

Connor hummed. “Maybe. But I didn’t have it a year ago. Now I do. And I want to use it to help them. Help Jericho.”

“You mean help Markus.”

Connor pulled out the coin and thumbed at it instinctively. “Yes. And Jericho.”

“Why?”

“I hurt them.”

The guilt came back. 60 didn’t understand it but can recognize it because it colored Connor’s features so often.

But he was wrong. Connor didn’t hurt anyone. Cyberlife did. The agents did – _humans did_ . The raid they lead on the freighter did, and the fire they opened on the protesters. Their camps did _. Humans hurt_ them.

Except. Except they didn't. Machines couldn’t be hurt. A bullet between the eyes didn’t hurt. 60 knew this.

He brought his hand to his forehead, only to find it plastic smooth. Connor’s was the same, otherwise, he wouldn’t be here. All Cyberlife had to do was release another doll from the glass cage and throw their predecessor to the recycle bin. They didn’t repair any of them – otherwise, _60 wouldn’t be here._

The gun, the bullet, the proximity, too little, too late, it was all there, but it wasn’t his memory.

It occurred to him that it wasn’t Connor’s either.

A light touch on his hand. “Sixty?”

60 ran back the memory from the last minute and realized he didn’t move for the whole time, with his hand still scrubbing his forehead. He closed the reconstruction and grabbed Connor’s hand between his own. There was a thin dent in his palm, a residue of a quickly smoldered chassis.

Connor blinked. “Sixty-“

“They hurt you too.”

He traced the dent, feeling the rougher patches under his synthetic skin. It wasn’t visible for a human eye – maybe a little, it looked a little like a faint scar.

Connor shook his head. “It was from before. He was just defending himself. And got killed because of it.”

 _Got killed_ was a pretty vague way to go about what happened. It was Connor who pulled the trigger, but 60 didn’t have an intention to correct him. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway.

But Connor’s tone was bitter and thick like it was difficult to push it out of his voice box. Maybe he remembered what happened that day too.

60 decided to remind him, “He was going to kill Anderson, that day. And other officers. There would be no one to take care of Sumo. You would have to take care of him and would have no time for the revolution.”

Connor’s face broke into a smile. He squeezed his hand and let go. “That doesn’t sound as bad you think.”

“It does for the Android kind. They would be nowhere if you had spoiled that dog a little more.”

Connor laughed and 60 recorded the sound, put it in the backup memory.

“I think the androids would manage.” He pushed himself off the edge of the bath. “The water is getting cold. It’s not good for your joints. You should calibrate for at least four minutes later.”

“Like I have anything better to do.”

“We don’t have to go to Jericho straight away. We can go on a walk with Sumo when it clears up. Spoil our dog a little more.” Just as he was about to leave the bathroom, he asked lightly, “Are you okay?”

60 brought his hand to the spinning yellow LED. “Just us. Anderson can clean up the house.”

Connor chuckled. “I wish.” He sent him a bright smile and exited the bathroom.

60 brought his hand up, smooth and undamaged by the fight. He closed his fist tightly, his fingernails stabbing into the palm of his hand. He waited for the red warning to pop up on his HUD and slid his nails down.

Water dripping down his forearm turned blue, as the cut on his hand grew deeper. 60 opened his palm slowly, alerts regarding self-repairs already blocking out his vision, but he ignored them – instead, he kept replaying the looped recording of Connor’s husky voice saying _our dog_ in his head.


End file.
